Renovations
by chasingfireflies
Summary: The shadow of the now-deceased dark wizard had fallen over the world, and it would be years before it truly went away. -- oneshot.


**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'd be a fantastic writer with so many better things to do than writing fanfiction. Clearly, I'm not. Go figure.**

**…Not my best work…**

**

* * *

**

In truth, he'd barely made it to the Gryffindor common room, but he couldn't let them know that. So, he made the half-mumbled excuse that he wanted to sit in front of the fire for a little while – alone – and he'd see them when they all woke up the next day. For that, he sat down on one of the more comfy chairs in front of the flames, clearly rekindled since the battle had ended earlier.

Within seconds he's slumped down to practically lie on the couch. Within minutes he'd fallen asleep – not unlike Ron and Hermione upstairs.

When he woke it was to whispered voices and a strained conversation behind him. He didn't mean to interrupt, so he didn't show that he was awake in any way, and instead, stared at the still-burning flames in front of him.

"I thought you said you-" a voice started – Ron's, more than just familiar. He was cut off by his sister quite quickly.

"Look, Ron – mum's said we're going home today – at four – and whether you come with us or stay with dad and Percy to help clean up is entirely up to you. But we're leaving now, so you – and Hermione – have to make up your mind now whether you're going to come or not," she was saying quickly. "The question is what you want to help with – cleaning and fixing the school, or helping with organising the funerals. Lupin and Tonks's, and F-Fre…"

"I know, Gin, but it's not just me and Hermione that'll have to choose."

"If you come with us now, he can't come," was the stony reply. There was a long silence between the two siblings, and he, Harry, was staring at the flames through half-lidded eyes. He hadn't understood to begin with, but it was becoming excessively clear. Whatever it was that Ginny wanted everyone else to do with or without her, _he_ wasn't included.

"You said you wanted to see him – to talk to him again. Today," Ron replied, and he almost sounded pleading.

"Yeah, well… That was before Fred…" she trailed off for a moment. "Look, I don't want to… see him… _now_. So just… _don't _bring him, if you come."

"It's not his fault that they…" Ron stated, and to that there was only silence. After a couple of minutes of silence that was halfway between irritated and awkward, Ron continued. "He'll want to know why, you know."

"Then tell him something," she replied, and there was an odd strain in her voice that was rarely attributed to the girl in question. "I don't know. Anything. Just don't _bring him _to see me. I just… _can't _right now."

Ron sighed. "You confuse me sometimes, Gin."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied slowly, and the strained tone was still there. "I'll… see you later…"

There was a short silence with nothing but the sound of her footsteps, and then the sound of the portrait opening and closing behind her. Ron still hadn't made a move; standing somewhere behind Harry in the room, and Harry could feel his friend's gaze. But he didn't move, staring at the fire while an odd feeling twisted into his gut.

After what could have been thirty seconds, or five minutes, or a half hour, Ron finally walked off – out of the portrait hole after his sister. Harry waited until he was long gone before he moved at all.

It started with a twitch of his fingers, moved to a slight shift of his arm. But his entire body ached. Mentally, and mostly, he was refreshed. But physically – his muscles still throbbed; his limbs still weighed him down. So, he stopped moving, and closed his eyes for another half hour, until he hauled himself to his feet and made his own way, groggily, out of the Gryffindor common room.

He'd taken care of the bare morning necessities before he'd actually realised that it wasn't morning – quite the opposite – it was evening, and a dry tinge of orange was stretching across the sky. So he sniffed, and made his way down to the Great Hall, dragging himself past familiar faces that were working on the repairs of the castle.

He'd hit the main staircase when he was hit by a wave of dizziness and he found himself sitting down against the wall.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

And that was Arthur Weasley, rushing up the stairs to him, wand out, concerned. He smiled humorlessly to himself, closing his eyes again and pulling off his glasses as he realised for the first time they were cracked – obviously from the day before. He held them out to Arthur tiredly.

"I'm fine," he lied, and the words came so easily, so naturally, that it was ridiculous. "But could you…? I'm still…"

"Tired? I'd imagine so. Of course, of course," Arthur answered quickly, taking the glasses and tapping them with a muttered '_reparo_'. He handed them back. "There. Good as new." Harry had the abrupt feeling that he was being examined, then. "You look like death, Harry."

"That's nice," he replied. "Because I feel like it too." There was a pause before he asked a question he already knew the answer to. "They all went back to the Burrow, didn't they?"

If there was one thing that Harry really respected about Arthur Weasley as a person, it was that he didn't feel the need to bandy about words when it came to things like this. Instead, the man sat down beside him, tugged at the neck of his robes, and answered straight.

"Yes. Ron and Hermione said that they will be coming back tomorrow, though, to help out here. So if you're intending to stay they'll see you here. And if you're not intending to stay, then they'll make it their business to visit you tomorrow anyway."

"…How is everyone?" Harry asked cautiously. He knew Arthur's statement had been posed in a questioning manner – was he going to stay at Hogwarts and help, or disappear for a little. He also knew that Mister Weasley had noticed that he'd avoided answering on purpose. It wasn't that he didn't want Arthur to know – it was that he wasn't yet entirely certain himself.

"…Coping," he answered thoughtfully. "They're all sad about Remus, and Tonks – and somewhat angry about Fred, still, apart from Molly, who's still slightly in shock that Bellatrix…"

"She deserved it," Harry answered coldly. There was a slight shift beside him, and he opened his eyes to Arthur's half-curious, half-alarmed expression. "Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, and it reassured the older man not to be alarmed. "For everything she's done. And Tom too, the broken bastard. But everyone else…"

They trailed into a total silence for several minutes before Arthur stood up and patted him on the shoulder.

"I have to get back to work. The more I do, the sooner I can get home to Molly," he explained quickly. "You should get some dinner, Harry – you must be hungry. After that, whatever you do is up to you, just make sure to tell someone."

He barely nodded before Arthur was off, back the way he'd come from, wand at the ready. It was Harry's next, quiet words to himself that made him decide to go back to Grimmauld Place to sleep and eat and live while he would go daily to Hogwarts to fix what he'd inspired.

"They never should have died for me."

_-x-_

"What would you like for dinner this evening, Master Harry?"

"I don't mind, Kreacher," he answered simply, passing off a small smile. "Anything you would like is fine with me." Kreacher stared at him, wide-eyed.

"The master is asking me what I would like to eat for tea?" he asked, and Harry wasn't sure if the house elf was asking himself or the wizard.

"Absolutely. I'd like you to eat at the table with me."

"…May Kreacher ask why, Master Harry?"

Harry sat back in his chair slowly, seeming to ask himself the same question. "Because… Hermione was right. And house elves need to be treated like equals. So I'd like you to eat with me, and I'd like you to have input with what happens to the house now."

Kreacher stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers – so large, in fact, that Harry was slightly concerned there might be something wrong with him.

"The master wants my… input…?"

"I value your opinion," he replied slowly, cautiously. "Besides – you live here too. It should be satisfactory to your tastes as well." Kreacher blinked, and smiled, and then, before Harry knew it, the house elf was crying tears of joy, and running off to find something to make for dinner.

Harry blinked. "Well that was…" he trailed off thoughtfully. "Odd. That was odd." There was the sound of footsteps at the doorway, and then a voice called out to correct him.

"Not really. Remember your standards, Harry," and he turned around to see Hermione standing at the door to the kitchen, a small smirk on her face. He raised his bottle of butterbeer to her.

"Touché," he replied. "That can actually be considered painstakingly normal with my life." She made her way to sit at the table with him, and Kreacher ran up with a bottle of butterbeer for her without being called.

"Will Master Hermione be staying for tea?" he asked quickly, and she exchanged a look with Harry cautiously. He shrugged, she nodded, and then Kreacher was off again, back to his cooking in a flash.

There was silence while they both drank. "…Molly's been asking for you," Hermione said eventually. "Says she hasn't seen you since the battle, and she wants you to come over for dinner soon. She's concerned for you, since it's been two weeks. Arthur told her you were fine when he saw you on Monday and Hogwarts's repairs were finished."

"…You'll have to tell her – _them_ – to come here for tea instead," he replied quietly, turning to stare at the fire. "They should try Kreacher's cooking. He was excellent before, and yet he's still improving somehow."

He could feel Hermione's eyes on him, examining him.

"…We're all worried about you, Harry," she stated simply, and he smiled wryly to himself as he realised everyone so far had dropped their false pretences. And of course Hermione would be straight with him – she'd known him long enough to know he needed little else from those around him. "No one sees you – apart from at restoration, that is. And even then, it was rare. Whatever it is you were doing at the time, you were never to be found."

"I've been… enjoying my solitude," he replied, and he knew she was rolling her eyes. She didn't believe him, and he knew it, but she chose not to press the subject, just this once. They both stayed silent then, staring at the fire until Kreacher placed three plates of roast beef and vegetables on the table and took his own seat opposite the two of them.

"Whenever you are ready, masters," he announced, clasping his hands upon the table before him. Harry blinked, thinking that Kreacher looked ridiculously small sitting on that chair at the table. He shrugged internally before sitting forward and digging into his own meal, noting that Kreacher and Hermione both followed suit.

As soon as they were all done and he'd slumped back into his chair again, Kreacher stole his empty plate away and made off to wash the dishes.

"That was wonderful, Kreacher, thank you," both Harry and Hermione said, exchanging a look as they realised they'd said the same thing. Kreacher merely mumbled a hushed thanks, before returning to the table with another butterbeer for the two of them and sitting opposite Harry curiously.

"You wanted to speak with me, master?"

Harry smiled. "Yes," he started quickly. "I was thinking about the quality of the house over the last few days. While it's no doubt improved – by far, in fact, and I'm relieved by the fact that there's nothing creeping around upstairs anymore - the walls are all faded, the stairs still creak, there are a couple of pictures and things on the wall I'd like removed, and we need some new furniture. A _lot _of new furniture."

Kreacher blinked. Hermione frowned and turned to look at him.

"So, Kreacher, I would like to know what you think we should do, how we should do it, and whether you would like to move from in here to staying in Regalus's old room sometime soon," Harry explained hastily, and Kreacher smiled, bringing in his happy tears again.

"Certainly, sir! I will do my best to find the colour swabs and furniture catalogues and materials for your perusal!" was the fast reply, and then Kreacher was away with a loud _crack! _before Harry could blink. There was an abrupt silence.

"…You are doing up the house," Hermione stated bluntly. He turned to her and blinked.

"…Yes. I live here. I'm sick of everything being… well… _grey_," he replied. She pursed her lips.

"Harry James Potter," she started sternly, and he couldn't help but smile at her serious tone. "You better not be renovating as an excuse to avoid the rest of the world, and your friends and family."

He grinned. "I'm not," he told her, a slight laughing sound in his voice. "I'm fixing up the house so Teddy can stay here sometimes. I spoke with Andromeda the other day about it, and offered to look after him if she ever wanted a break. I reminded her I'd be right here if _she _needed help anytime as well. As it is, I'm supposed to go over there every Wednesday night for tea anyway."

Hermione nodded her head thoughtfully. "You're still avoiding the rest of us, Harry."

"Not so. I just haven't _seen_ the rest of you lately. I'm not _avoiding _you."

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet. "Okay, Harry. That's it. I'm expected back soon anyway," she announced, and stood after her. "But you – promise to drop by the Burrow soon, if only so Molly stops bugging me about you. Ron's actually getting slightly touchy too, but his mother won't let any of them leave the house at the moment, least of all him."

"…_Why?_"

"It's the first time in years that she _knows _they're all going to be safe, and she's relishing that time with them," Hermione explained. "She'll let them all go soon… Hopefully…" They made their way down the hall while she paused thoughtfully. "In the meantime – the funeral's been planned for next weekend, and if you don't attend Molly won't be the only one out for blood."

He raised a hand. "I'm obliged," he said. "I'll be there." They were almost at the door when he picked up a small box from the stairs nearby and handed it to her. "Give this to them?" he requested, and she knew he was only half-asking. She sighed, taking the box and sneaking a peek.

"And how much is this, exactly?" she deadpanned. He shrugged.

"Enough to cover the funeral, probably some extra," he told her.

"They won't take it."

"I won't take it back."

She stared at him. "You're giving them money – stubbornly making them take it – to pay for the funerals of Lupin, Tonks, Fred, and the others. On your own," she added sceptically. "Making them. You feel guilty, don't you?"

Despite the wording, Harry knew it wasn't posed as a question. Hermione knew him that well already. He smiled to himself and leaned against the wall quietly.

"It's my fault they died," was his simple answer. She had opened her mouth to reply angrily when he cut her off. "There's no point. It won't matter who says it to me – I'll still always know they died because of me. All of them." She sighed.

"You're always so stubborn, even when you're barely getting by."

He just smiled and patted her on the shoulder as a farewell before she would walk out the door and go back to the Burrow. He'd be alone again, she'd be with her boyfriend and his family, and they'd both dwell on the fact, for the rest of the night, that when she would say 'he'll visit sometime soon' on arrival it would be an empty promise.

"I'm still here, though."

She couldn't argue, really – so she gave him a sisterly hug and left.

_-x-_

"I'm sorry – we're only letting people in that knew them. You can't be here."

He snorted, holding out his wand to the older man for examination. "It's me, Arthur. You're too easily fooled," he said, and Arthur Weasley could only blink repetitively.

"You're kidding, Harry."

"What, I can't pull off blonde?" he asked sarcastically, and even Arthur had to smile at that. "Oh, drat. I should just go home and change, then. A little more mojo and I'll be shaggy, brunette, and with a scar over my left eye."

"No, no, Harry, it's fine," Arthur reassured quickly, and his tone was suddenly a shade brighter. "But you should probably stop making jokes at a funeral. You'll encourage Molly's wrath."

"No I won't," Harry corrected quickly. "No one's to know I'm here. Not even Ron and Hermione. I expect absolute secrecy, Arthur."

"Absolute secrecy?" Arthur questioned quickly, uncertain. "Harry, the time for secrecy's passed."

"Not when the second you step out of your house – that no one's supposed to know the location of, mind you – you're swamped by strange little men with pens, paper, cameras, and Rita Skeeter at their lead," he replied exasperatedly, standing at the door of the church. Arthur let out a small chuckle. Then the sad veil that came from attending a funeral fell across them again.

"Molly's worried for you. Hermione's been to see you four times now, trying to get you to visit. She always returns with the same reply – 'he says he'll come soon'. But you never do," Arthur explained hurriedly, his suddenly hushed tone going unnoticed by the people that walked into the large church behind them. "She'll be looking for you today."

"Ah, but won't they all?" Harry replied dully, and it was more of a statement than a question. "And they won't see me, because they'll be looking for black hair, green eyes, and an annoying scar."

"Instead they'll be faced with blonde, blue, and scar less," Arthur commented dryly. "For a fact, you've done the charms well. For another – you're right. We're all still fooled so easily." He sighed. "Very well, Harry. In you go. I won't tell anyone you're here. But the next time you see Molly – or, I suppose, she sees _you_ – I promise you are going to get an _earful_. Believe me – she's not happy with you. You haven't seen anyone _but_ Hermione since the repairs at Hogwarts were finished, you've locked yourself up in a dank house, and you've offloaded a box of galleons on us because you think this is all your fault."

"Ah, my track record," Harry commented, pulling for a moment at his semi-formal jacket while the light rain that was hitting them slowly soaked into his white dress-shirt. He sniffed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his pants. "Although, for future reference, my house isn't dank. It's bright, newly furnished, the paintings don't scream at me anymore, and none of the stairs creak."

There was a pause while Arthur frowned, and his gaze turned accusing. "Ah. You _have_ been renovating your house to avoid the rest of the world." Harry rolled his magically blue eyes.

"No, I have _not_. Everyone just keeps _assuming_."

Arthur shook his head. "Then we expect you at the Burrow _this week_, no excuses." Harry pulled a deadpanned expression.

"You're a horror, you know," he said. "The only two things I have ever feared more than dementors, and you want me to face them both at the same time." Arthur blinked at him, and Harry let out a quiet, slightly insane sounding laugh. "Sorry, Arthur, but I'll need reassurance first."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Harry," Mister Weasley admitted slowly, and Harry merely frowned and pulled one hand out of his pockets to tap the side of his forehead.

"I _mean_, Mister Weasley," he explained simply, "that I won't visit anyone I'm obliged unless I know I'm welcome."

"You're _always _welcome, Harry!" was the hasty, confused reply. "You know this already. _Any_ time!" Harry shook his head simply with a small sigh.

"Check again," he advised. Then he nodded his temporarily blonde head at Arthur and made his own way into the church, leaving the redheaded man at the door alone and confused.

His feet led him into the main room, where he made to sit in the last pew on the left, watching the other guests take their seats in the grey atmosphere. He frowned at the thought, realising that it didn't matter that the Dark Lord was gone, and the war was weeks in the past, it was all still grey.

His gaze moved from the three coffins at the front to the heads of the filled front row. His eyes ran over Hermione, at the edge of the pew beside Ron. The brothers were all lined up next to him – George, Percy, Charlie, Bill. Then came Fleur, and Molly. And at the very end of the wooden pew, beside her mother, with an empty spot beside her for her father, was Ginny Weasley.

Harry sniffed.

She was facing her mother, a slightly troubled look on her face. She seemed to frown, frustrated, before her eyes made a sweep of the room, searching out a particular face. He turned his gaze back to the coffins only a second before her eyes turned to him, he knew. She was always sharper than the others, so he could only hope that the distance would fool her.

He heard the murmurs before he felt the joint gaze. He didn't even need to look to know she'd seen him – or not him, but rather the character he was portraying – and she was wondering why he was there. He – the blonde haired, unfamiliar teenager in the back row of her brother's and friend's funeral. So she'd said it to her mother, her sister in-law, her most-likely-future-sister-in-law, and her brothers – and they'd _all _turned to look.

He smirked silently to himself, eyes closed, even as someone took a seat behind him, and he opened his eyes to see George's grim face.

"You attract attention even when you try not to, don't you Harry?" George asked quietly, somehow knowing he didn't want to be known.

"So it seems," he replied. He nodded in the Weasley's direction. "Do they all know?"

"No, just me. But I see through people now. And you, Harry – you're too familiar to me to hide."

"Are you going to tell them it's me?"

"I wasn't planning on it. Ron's about ready to knock someone around, and with you shying away from everyone for the past three weeks, you'd be the prime candidate," George explained. Harry crossed his arms with a nod of agreement. "And mum's been looking out for you for the last hour. She wants to see you. But something tells me that it's probably not the best idea today, is it."

It wasn't a question. "No," Harry said. "Perhaps not. What will the story be then?"

"Old friend from the joke shop. I'll say you're a friend of Remus's we met once upon a time, who thought we were funny, and helped us to open shop."

"So, technically, not lying."

"No. Not at all, actually," George said. "It's all truthful." They were silent for several minutes, staring towards the coffins at the front of the room. "You're not going to stay for the wake?" Harry merely shook his head. "Is it because of Gin?"

Harry sniffed. "How'd you all surmise?"

"Not all of us – dad and mum still don't know you two were ever really _together_, together. And Hermione's the only one who actually figured it out," he explained. "It was only minutes after we got back to the Burrow on the first day, actually. She asked Ron why you weren't there, and he said he wasn't allowed to bring you over straight away because Ginny said so."

"That would be about it, really."

"Yeah. But then, a couple of days later, when everyone started wondering where you were, Hermione did her usual…"

"Magical powers of deduction?" Harry put in reasonably. George shrugged.

"Pretty much, yeah. Ron and Ginny said they had their conversation about you when you were in the room, 'cause they thought you were asleep. Hermione just rolled her eyes at them and walked out of the house in a reasonably bad mood, saying 'well obviously he was _awake_', and she went to visit you." George paused. "…Uh… How are you… _doing_ with all of that…?"

Harry snorted. "To put it bluntly – I'm still wallowing in my own pool of self-blame, anger, loneliness, and depression," he said simply. He flashed George a thumbs up. "But hey, that's all _great_."

"She's not helping in anyway by pushing you away like that."

"Not really, but it can't be helped," he said, shrugging. "And all of it is my fault anyway."

"You shouldn't think like that, Harry. Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Dobby – no one living, or dead, thinks it's your fault. Not one person. And they'd all tell you the exact same thing."

"And _yet_," Harry said, and the two of them exchanged an understanding glance. They'd both already noticed, to say the very least, but in Harry's words they both admitted it entirely. "No matter who says it, or how many times, I'll always think it of myself. _Always_."

The shadow of the now-deceased dark wizard had fallen over the world, and it would be years before it truly went away.

_-x-_

Dinner at the Weasleys' had, for the first time in living memory, been silent. In fact, it had been so for weeks, and if anything, the silence had seemed to get worse.

What had begun as a mourning silence had turned tense and awkward, as if there was some link between the times that was missing entirely. While anyone in thorough denial would've said that it was Fred's absence that made the difference, they all knew that it wasn't quite true. Fred wasn't the only person missing.

It was five days after the funeral that Molly Weasley decided to bring up the topic again. Awkwardness reigned once more.

"How was Harry today, Hermione?"

There was a silence. Then Ron coughed for a moment, choking on the last mouthful of chicken he'd had. George tapped his fork on the table twice, frowning. Bill raised a hand to twist one of the earrings he had in, while Fleur placed her cutlery down altogether, crossed her arms, and turned to hear Hermione's answer. Ginny had fallen silent entirely, and stiffened to the point of barely moving to breathe.

"He's… the same," Hermione answered simply. "He says he'll visit eventually. Again. But from what I understand… he's not feeling… comfortable."

"Comfortable?" George asked quietly, and he sounded sceptical. "Last he told me he was feeling lonely, angry, depressed, and blaming himself for everything bad that's happened."

"Last _you _heard?" Ron asked, and no one noticed Ginny's suddenly alert gaze. "When'd you see him?"

"At the funeral," George replied. "He'd charmed himself so no one would notice him. The blonde-haired bloke everyone was wondering about – that was him."

"The one you said was an old friend of everyone's who payed to open your joke shop?"

"That's the one."

"You lied about it?"

"No, it was all technically true," George replied with a shrug. Ron stared at him.

"And you didn't think to tell any of us it was him?" he asked irately. George blinked.

"He asked me not to. And dad, too – he knew. Had a nice little chat about why he's not over here at all, apparently." All eyes turned to Arthur, and Molly's gaze turned accusing.

"Arthur?"

"Well, he did _ask_," the old man explained. His wife's eyes narrowed, not even bothering to ask the next question. "He said, I believe," Arthur started with a sigh, "that he wouldn't come here again – or anywhere else, I suppose, leaving his deceptively small, but renovated, house – until he knew he was absolutely, positively welcome."

"He is welcome!" Molly argued, and Arthur blinked, baffled.

"Apparently not," he replied with a shrug. "I'm assuming he knows something we don't." There was a quiet squeaking sound in the silence that followed, and all eyes turned to Ginny. She froze like a deer in headlights, and then she jumped out of her seat and made for the door.

"Ginny!" Molly called loudly. "Where are you-" She was cut off by a slamming door. There was an absolute silence in the room before Ron turned to Hermione with a knowing question.

"Reckon we'll see him tomorrow?" he asked, and Hermione only grinned.

"I'd think so."

_-x-_

Harry had barely slumped into the kitchen chair with his drink before there was a knock on the door. How he managed to hear it, he wasn't sure, but he sighed, getting back to his feet and giving himself a once over before going to the door.

His hair was messy, he had spots of blue, red, and yellow paint on his shirt (probably a smudge on his face as well), and there was a barely significant mottled tear on the left leg of his pants, but it would do. Whoever it was, they were calling after acceptable visiting hours, sometime around eight. They couldn't possibly be expecting any better.

But all irritated thoughts vanished from his mind when he opened the door to a silent Ginny, some unknown emotion flitting through her eyes as she stared back at him. He blinked once, sighed, and stepped aside to clear the doorway, facing her as she uncertainly slid past him. She was halfway down the hall to the kitchen before he'd even closed the door.

He sighed before he followed after her, watching her glance around the restored house as she went, appreciating the redecoration. She forwarded into the kitchen, he followed, and they sat down at the table while Kreacher brought her a butterbeer and then excused himself completely.

They were silent for some time, both staring at the fireplace thoughtfully. But she seemed to get tired of sitting in an awkward atmosphere, sick of being tense.

"…I didn't mean for you to hear," she said. There was a pause, and she turned her head to look at him, her voice soft. "…What I said to Ron on that first day. I didn't mean…"

"Doesn't matter," he replied quietly. He sniffed. "You meant it."

She was silent, shocked, aching. "…I didn't," she told him. "Any of it. I was just tired, I just needed time to-"

"-And you have all the time in the world, Gin," he told her simply, turning his head to look at her. "Always do. I'm not forcing myself back into your life if you don't want me there. After a year, I can understand if you don't."

He wondered if she saw in his eyes how much it killed him to even think it. Then her face turned agonized, and she was out of her seat, onto his lap, drink forgotten, pressing her lips against his and wrapping her arms around his neck. He barely had time to realise the sudden gesture before she was talking to him again, so quiet he almost didn't hear.

"How could you think so?" she asked him, her lips barely apart from his. He sighed slightly. "How could you ever think? When I missed you every _moment _that you were away. It was just too much happening too fast. I couldn't handle it all."

He looked into her eyes, searching, and she stared straight back, feeling vulnerable, knowing that this moment would either make or break the two of them. Then he cocked his head to the side slightly.

"…I still love you, you know," he said, and her mouth fell open slightly at the words. He half-smiled at her shock, lifting a hand to stroke her fringe from her face.

"…You…"

"…Always have," he stated simply, and it was barely a moment before her lips were on his again, all lows forgotten.

* * *

**That was such a shitty ending. I forgot the original one. Ehhe.**

**I am so watching teletubbies right now. :)**


End file.
